Caring Is Not An Advantage
by vicarwithableedingface
Summary: Mycroft is a bit of a mysterious character, as well as one of my favourites, so this is my take on what has made him the 'Ice Man'. Inspired by a drawing by i-really-should-be-drawing (I recommend taking a look at some of their work).


**Hello all! Sadly, Sherlock does not belong to me, so credit goes to the BBC. Depending on the response, I may expand this into a story with chapters. Hope you enjoy it!**

I was seven when he was born. Sherlock, that is. From the very first time I set eyes on him, and his mass of thick black curls, I knew I would worry about him constantly.

My brother is one of very few people that I ever cared about. Developing very quickly, Sherlock could walk, talk and read by three, so by four, naturally, he was very inquisitive and curious, constantly exploring and causing our mummy endless grief. When mummy died I was twelve, yet with father frequently absent on his trips abroad, I was left to care for Sherlock. To cope with my grief I invented whole new worlds, and Sherlock joined me as we sailed the seven seas as Captain 'Croft and Seaman Sherlock, looking for lost treasures and fighting off the navy. As well as playing pirates, we would spend hours in the holidays when I came home from boarding school staging investigations, experiments and pouring over books in the library, making a mess of the house in the process and trailing mud along the corridors, much to the annoyance of both the housekeeper and the cleaner.

Sherlock was always father's favourite. Despite that fact that I shared my father's ambitions to become a member of the government, Sherlock was still his favourite, as he was always more outgoing and seemed to be more intelligent, although mainly just because he showed off his deductive talents with more frequency than I, as I had learnt to keep my mouth shut after I innocently told mummy that father was meeting with another woman, causing the gradual decay and breakdown of their marriage until mummy's death. I was often ignored, or brushed off, creating tensions between us, so when father died, leaving us both orphaned aged just eight and fifteen, Sherlock was more deeply affected than I was, shutting out everyone, even me, his adored and idolised older brother. I am ashamed to say that I didn't cope with this rejection from the one person who looked up to me very well.

Hurt by the brother who used to enthusiastically greet me when I returned from boarding school, rather than trying to help him, I threw myself into my studies, teaching myself not to care. And so it was that when I turned eighteen I left for university, leaving my aunt to look after Sherlock, having barely spoken to him for three years.

Then I met her. I was convinced that she was the one. Elizabeth Palmer. Petite with huge dark eyes and thick curls of honey coloured hair, she caught my eye on the very first day of university. And amazingly, she agreed to go out with me, a tall, thin, withdrawn bookworm. Slowly she taught me how to feel again, going with me to dances, theatre productions and restaurants, and I found myself, the ice man, falling in love. The evening after graduation, I asked her to take a walk with me. As we walked, I told her how I had secured a job in the government, only a minor position, but a job none the less, and that now I was completely ready to start my adult life. I lead her to an abandoned warehouse, where I got onto one knee and proposed. To my delight, and relief, she said yes.

With the wedding being planned mostly by Elizabeth, I focused on working my way up the ladder of the British government. Then, four weeks before the wedding, I was sat working in my office (I never did like legwork), when I received a call. It was from the headmaster of Sherlock's boarding school. "What has he done this time?" I thought to myself, sighing as the headmaster asked me to meet him at the school in his office as soon as possible. Arriving at the school, I was shown through to the office, where a sullen, sixteen year old Sherlock sat upright in a chair opposite his headmaster, looking as bored as ever. The headmaster went on to explain that Sherlock was frequently caught ignoring his teachers and not paying attention in class. There had been several incidents where he had informed his teacher's that they "shouldn't talk out loud, as it lowers the IQ of the whole school." The final straw had come when he had caused an explosion in the science labs, as he investigated his latest theory, and now he was being expelled.

And that was how I found myself sat next to Sherlock in the taxi on the way back to London, contemplating what to do with him. I took him back to the flat where I lived, and called Elizabeth, asking her to come and help me deal with Sherlock. When she arrived, I had already told Sherlock about our engagement, and informed him that until I could secure a new school place for him, he would be living with me. Through her persuasion, I invited Sherlock to the wedding as my best man, and he grudgingly agreed.

Therefore, four weeks later, I found myself waiting nervously for my bride to appear, whilst Sherlock stood beside me, only a little shorter than me. My breath caught in my throat as Elizabeth appeared in the chapel doorway, a vision in ivory satin as she glided down the aisle. I could have sworn that even my emotionless brother seemed in awe of her at that moment. As I said "I do," with my beautiful wife on one side, and my brother finally on speaking terms with me, it seemed that my life couldn't get any better.

Yet it did, when six months later, Elizabeth told me that I was going to be a father. By this point, Elizabeth and I had moved into a London flat of our own, and Sherlock had moved into my old flat whilst he studied at St Bart's hospital and college. It was to my old flat that I then rushed to tell Sherlock the news. He already knew of course. "An uncle? And you a father, Mycroft?" he said, seeming rather amused at the thought.

And so it was, eight months later I became the father of Amelia Rose Holmes, a beautiful, healthy baby girl, with her mother's eyes and my own dark hair. Two years later, she was joined by Timothy Sherlock Holmes, an inquisitive, blonde haired baby, whose uncle pretended to despise the use of his name, but secretly seemed pleased when he thought no one was watching.

Over the next few years, I rose to a senior position in the government as I watched my children learn to walk, talk and play. Throughout these years, my brother seemed to calm down, and we grew close again. I finally felt that I was helping my brother who I had forgotten all those years ago. Then, one Christmas, I failed. Sherlock, Elizabeth and I sat in armchairs around the fireplace, watching Timothy and Amelia playing together peacefully. The day had been wonderful: it had been a white Christmas, we had gorged on turkey, potatoes and Brussels, and unwrapped gifts from one another. Sherlock sat playing his now – the beautiful wooden violin had been a gift from myself and Elizabeth. His gift to me rested against the armchair I was in – a furled, black umbrella, the handle of which was made from our father's old cane. But as I have learnt over the years, peace and calm cannot last. Having become bored, Sherlock decided to 'deduce'. Looking carefully at Elizabeth, he began to talk. "Hmm, someone's seeing someone else later. Judging from the carefully applied lipstick and impatient tapping on the arm of your chair, I would say someone close to you, probably male. Lover, perhaps?" Seeing the hurt in Elizabeth's eyes, and knowing the truth, I stood. "Don't assume anything, Sherlock. Elizabeth is meeting her brother later, he's just returned from serving in the army. It was him who bought her the lipstick, that's why she's wearing it. Why do you always have to make stupid deductions?" I yelled at him. Pausing, and breathing deeply, I heard Timothy start to cry. "I'll go," Sherlock said, standing and pulling on his coat. "Goodbye, brother dear." And with that, he pulled his coat on, picked up the violin, and left. All the years of work, building up his trust, demolished in seconds. Elizabeth comforted the children, and put them to bed, then left to meet her brother, returning late that night and pulling me into a tight hug. "I know you were just trying to defend me, but you know what your brother's like, he didn't mean it," she whispered, before kissing me goodnight and falling asleep.

On New Year's Eve, our little family stayed up watching the fireworks through the window, before toasting to a fantastic year to come. Little did we know what was going to happen... The day it happened started out like any other. I arrived at the office, checked my inbox, and met with some foreign dignitaries. However, at precisely 3.16pm, my world changed forever. My assistant came into my office without knocking, alerting me to a problem, as she never did this. "Sir, the Prime Minister has requested an urgent meeting with you," she said. Within minutes, I was being chauffeured to Downing Street, where I was escorted into a private room. I forget the exact conversation that followed, but the blinding pain and grief will live with me forever. Due to my position in the government, a terrorist cell had kidnapped my wife and children, and was threatening to kill them if I didn't disclose information regarding top secret government plans. To save my family, I would have given any information up immediately, but I didn't have the information. Unfortunately, the terrorists didn't know this and I knew they wouldn't believe me if I told them. Then, the Prime Minister lit a spark of hope inside of me, telling me that he did have the information. But my hopes were dashed when he refused to give the information to the terrorist cell.

It was one of very few times that I have ever lost my temper, and certainly the only time I have ever done it at work. I threw myself at the Prime Minister, yelling threats and screaming in anguish. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed. I later found out that I had been restrained and drugged by the Prime Ministers bodyguard. A nurse visited me and broke to me the news that when refused, the terrorist cell had murdered my family. I grieved in silence for days, shutting myself out from the world, and refusing to speak to anyone. I eventually got out of bed and dressed in a three piece suit for the funeral of my family. Their bodies hadn't been recovered, so it was a more of a memorial service, although headstones had been placed for each of them. I waited until everyone was gone, then approached the empty graves. I allowed a single tear to escape, then just stood, waiting as if they might reappear magically. I jumped as a hand was placed on my shoulder. Turning, I saw Sherlock standing there. I hadn't seen him since Christmas. I hadn't even notified him of the deaths of my family. Yet he had found out and was now here. I looked at him, hoping, expecting even, that he had decided to make another attempt at our broken relationship. But he simply said "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." Then he walked away, leaving me gasping as if he had punched me in the stomach. Little did I know then that those words would become a mantra to me in the future, a phrase that I would even remind my brother of, as he grieved over _The_ Woman.

Over the next ten years, I put on weight, comfort eating to forget the world, and becoming withdrawn and cold. Through my line of work, hundreds of people died, but I taught myself to become detached and separate. I even sold out my own brother to a known psychopath, Jim Moriarty.

Eventually though, I decided to make an effort with my last remaining family member. He had begun living with an ex-army doctor, Dr John Hamish Watson, and was calling himself a 'consulting detective.' We begun to grow close again, and I even had moments where I found myself feeling proud of him, as he made his name, supported by John. Although there were times when he proved himself to be too clever, causing me troublesome issues, such as the Irene Adler incident, I learnt to forgive him, and even began to provide him with help in some instances. But I made one, fatal mistake. I never told him about Jim Moriarty.

I now find myself standing by a gravestone, simply marked "Sherlock Holmes. A great man." Taking a deep breath, I force myself to look at my wedding ring, which now rests on my right hand, and remind myself of Sherlock's words to me, all those years ago. The words that I had even had the audacity to repeat back to him that Christmas. "Caring is not an advantage." Of anyone, I should know this. But sentimentality wins out, and I place the battered umbrella that I have faithfully kept hold of all these years against the cold, grey stone, and walk away.

**Thanks for reading, please review!**


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